


Early Morning Visit

by holyfudgemonkeys (erraticallyinspired)



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright, Established Relationship, False Accusations, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mpreg, Older Man/Younger Man, Relationship Reveal, Secret Relationship, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:40:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28643841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erraticallyinspired/pseuds/holyfudgemonkeys
Summary: Jessica stops in to convince Malcolm to be her plus one to a charity banquet.She doesn't expect to find a man in his loft.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Jessica Whitly, Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Jessica Whitly, Past Gil Arroyo/Jessica Whitly
Comments: 12
Kudos: 72





	Early Morning Visit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [4everFlyingdragons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/4everFlyingdragons/gifts).



> Happy Birthday to Tori's mom! (And thank you for making one of my favorite human beings <3) This isn't the fic I originally plotted out for you, but uh... that outline might have ballooned into something I don't have time for right now. So here's a short piece instead! (Longer fic to come at a later date, tho!)
> 
> ALSO IMPORTANT: this fic contains accusations of underage, but it's a false accusation.

There isn’t a pep in her step today. No, she makes her way up the steps to her son’s godawful loft in a slow, dignified way, because even Malcolm is rarely dressed and out of the door this early in the morning. Barring the occasion a case required more urgency, he’d be doing yoga and ignoring his empty fridge right about now.

And that’s how Jessica wants it. (Not the empty fridge, of course. She’s tried coaxing him to eat more, but his appetite never recovered after _that_ night.) She needs him to be home, to not be in the middle of working a case, to have a few moments for his mother. 

She also needs him to agree to accompany her to the banquet as her plus one. After that whole mess with Endicott, the idea of taking an actual date is… not an option in her mind. Not yet. Besides, bringing Malcolm means she’ll have someone whose eye is trained to pick up all of the little things that could reveal who’s having an affair or whose wallet is emptier than they’d like to admit, which would make the otherwise _dull_ evening a lot more interesting. The upper crust is still stilted with her. Still likes to hold her at an arm’s length even as they go through the motions of accepting her again. Malcolm, who won’t really want to be there, will be much more pleasant company than most of them.

It also helps that the banquet is raising money for a cancer charity. Specifically, the money raised will go towards helping _children_ with cancer, some of whom will be in attendance. Malcolm is good with kids. Jessica knows it. 

She also knows he likes to ignore that fact. 

(She wants grandchildren, okay? If putting him in a room full of kids helps encourage him to give them to her, it’s more than worth the hefty donation she’s already pledged. Though she would have paid it anyway.)

But first, she has to ask him. He’ll hem and haw before accepting, naturally. He _will_ accept.

She’s halfway up the steps before she smells it. Breakfast. The scent of greasy sausage hits her first. It’s rich, thick, and almost serves to mask the waft of cheese that follows it. It’s the processed kind, nothing you’d find at the counters her son usually goes to for his dairy. Her instinct is to check if she’s in the right building, because Malcolm doesn’t even _eat_ most mornings, not if she’s not insisting on him being at home. Even then, he picks at what the cook serves him. Greasy foods have certainly never sat well with him. She stalls with one foot one step below.

Is it possible he has a _guest_ over? A guest who maybe stayed the night?

A guest who might be in a better position to help him overcome that silly little voice that keeps telling him he’ll be like Martin?

Jessica moves even quieter than before. Oh, the sheer possibility of what’s behind that door is making her positively giddy, but she knows she’ll startle them too much if she moves the way she wants to. 

Thankfully, her newest key still fits in the lock. She turns the doorknob at an achingly slow pace.

Cracks the door open. 

Peers in. 

Catches sight of a tall man standing at the stove in nothing but a pair of faded boxers. 

Her face begins to hurt, she’s grinning so hard. It isn’t like Malcolm to have someone stay over if he doesn’t trust them, which means this must be _serious_. Carefully, she steps inside and closes the door behind her. 

The man at the stove isn’t just tall — he’s reasonably well-built, too. He’s not rippling with muscles like something out of a bodybuilder magazine or anything, but he isn’t anywhere near _un_ fit. His skin is tanned. His hair is dark and mussed with streaks of silver here and there, and while that indicates he’s not as young as she would have liked for Malcolm, it doesn’t mean he won’t be able to give her grandbabies.

(She takes a long look. What? Her son has good taste.)

And a man who can _cook?_ She knows Malcolm will never be comfortable with staff around the house. At least this way she knows he won’t perish on his diet of licorice and lollipops. 

The man starts humming as he plates what turns out to be an omelet. He’s careful, using two spatulas to transfer the not inconsiderable envelope of eggs and cheese to a serving platter. 

Jessica pales. She _knows_ that voice. Knows that body, too, now that she finally stops ignoring the warning signs. 

The realization comes a split second before Gil turns around. He’s running a hand through his hair as he does, but his arm falls once he sees her. His lips part.

She cuts him off before a single sound can escape. “He’s my _son_ ,” she says, her voice raising with each successive word. “You met him when he was ten! What is _wrong_ with you?”

“Jess—”

Another case solved means a lazy morning in bed. Or, at least, lazy by their standards. They’ll still be dressed and at the precinct at a very professional time, but they were able to take their time relaxing last night, and so far today has amounted to a slow exploration of his body by Gil’s talented mouth and Malcolm lying in bed limp and happy while the smell of his new cravings begins to tempt him into moving. Gil won’t make him, though. He’ll bring a plate over, and the two of them will feed each other bite after bite until they have to get up and get ready for work.

That should have happened, at least.

His mother’s voice jarrs him out of his happy place. Malcolm scrambles out of bed and pulls on the first pair of pants he can find, which turns out to be a pair of Gil’s sweats he has to tighten the strings of, a bit of material bunching around his ankles from the height difference. 

“Don’t,” she snaps at his lover. “Don’t you _dare_ , Gil Arroyo. Have you forgotten we dated? I know it was brief, but I would have thought that would be a reason to not date my _son_. Or was I just a, a stepping stone —”

“Mother,” Malcolm says sharply. The wood floor is cold under his bare feet. The hair on his arms sticks up from the chill in the air. “I changed the locks.”

She doesn’t even look at him, staring at Gil as if her eyes are the only thing keeping him in place. (Maybe they are.) “And I had a new key made. Do you really think I didn’t notice, dear?”

“I thought you would at least knock first.” He presses the heel of his right palm against his eye and sighs. “I _hoped_ you might talk to me before throwing accusations —”

Her gaze shifts to him now, and he can see the exact moment the soft curve of his stomach registers. It’s blatant like this. Usually, his suits are enough to hide the swell. Her eyes narrow, her jaw sets, her fists clench. “What am I supposed to think? Gil is much older than you, Malcolm. He’s known you since you were a child, and now he’s apparently gotten you pregnant!” 

“Gil never would have looked at me twice back then,” Malcolm says calmly, taking slow steps towards her. “He certainly never would have cheated on Jackie. I _swear_ , Mother, nothing happened until after I came back to New York last year.”

Her hands are stiff in his, but at least she’s focused on him. 

Quietly, Gil slips the plate of omelet into the oven to stay warm with the sausage.

“I love him,” Malcolm admits. And fuck if it isn’t true. He’s fought so much to get to that realization, to put it into words and not feel guilty for his own feelings, to understand that Gil feels the same way and doesn’t feel trapped. 

Not by Malcolm and not at all by the baby they didn’t plan on having. 

“We only got together after Christmas,” he continues. There was one good thing about that harrowing night in the sewers below his childhood home, and it was the two of them becoming too desperate to not acknowledge what was simmering between them. “Nothing happened before then. _Nothing_.”

She’s not convinced. He can see that before she even opens her mouth. “I need some time,” she says in a deceptively steady voice. Gently, she pulls her hands from his. Her eyes linger on his bare stomach before she turns and lets herself out. 

She doesn’t look at Gil once.

Malcolm’s shoulders slump. His eyes sting. He latches onto his lover, who holds him tight, a soothing hand running up and down his back, their baby between them. “I’m sorry.”

Gil pulls away just enough to kiss him. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, kid. It’s no big deal. We planned to tell her in a few days, anyway, remember?”

It’s true. They were going to tell her at dinner, together, with Ainsley at their back. They’d told his sister a few weeks ago, and although she was weirded out initially, she quickly came to understand they worked. Work. 

Malcolm lays his head on Gil’s shoulder.

The smell of burning bread fills the loft. 

Gil curses and runs back to the counter, hitting the cancel button on the toaster and chucking blackened toast into the sink with the tips of his fingers. He shakes his hands as if he could shake the pain off.

And Malcolm can’t help himself — he laughs. 

Gil takes one look at him and chuckles. “It didn’t toast enough the first time,” he says, grinning. “It’s good to see you smile again. Keep it up for me, will you?”

Walking up to meet him, Malcolm gently takes his hands and kisses the tender skin. “I’ll try,” he promises. 

“We’ll take this one step at a time,” Gil says. “Together. Starting with some fresh toast.”

Malcolm snickers. He loves this man —

Burnt toast and all. 


End file.
